


The Quality or State of Being Domestic or Domesticated

by Ideal_Flower



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9901589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ideal_Flower/pseuds/Ideal_Flower
Summary: It hadn’t even taken her a month to find the house she wanted - a brownstone in Brooklyn that came with a six figure bank loan. He hadn’t mentioned that he had enough cumulative damage-pay to cover the entire house eight times over. Because mortgages werenormal, and they were normal now. CarriexQuinn. AU.





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same AU as _Galway Bay/Cold Wind Blows on the Soles of my Feet._ Follow [GB/CWBSF](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8804464) if you would like a refresher.

**JANUARY**

“Mummy?”

Quinn’s eyes flew open, but the bedroom was pitch dark, thanks to the blackout curtains Carrie had hung on the high panelled windows. It left the room strangely muffled, the Brooklyn noise echoing in the storm glass frames. 

He strained for the voice again, but it was nearly silent, only a distant city drone that his ears had adopted as white noise just in the few days since they’d arrived. But he could feel her. There was something about Franny that he could inherently _sense_. She was on the other side of the bed, nearest the door - Carrie’s side. But Carrie hadn’t moved a muscle, her breath steady against the back of his neck. 

“Mum… mmph.” 

The bed gave a little, and the top duvet shifted - Franny was trying to climb up onto the bed. Quinn reached a hand in the direction of the nightstand to find his watch. He pressed a button on the tactical screen and it lit up. 0330. _Fuck._

Carrie had stirred, but her arm tightened reluctantly around his waist, pulling him from the time and back into the blankets. Her fingernails dragged along his ribs, her stomach pressing forward into the small of his back as she hummed lightly. The t-shirt she was wearing - _his_ t-shirt - had ridden up and he could feel the swell of her breasts on his spine. A light sweat broke over his forehead.

“Carrie… _Carrie._ ” Quinn grabbed her roaming fingers as he rolled over to face her, his eyes adjusting across the room. He could see a set of tiny hands struggling to grasp the bed’s edge, and where after a second, a frustrated cry broke the silence. Carrie sat up so fast she nearly kneed him in the groin. He winced as she blinked in confusion. 

“Franny? Where-”

“I think she climbed out of her crib.” 

“Muuuuuuu,” Franny whined from the floor. 

Carrie leaned over and plucked Frannie from the cold hardwood. The toddler launched herself at the warm body and sulked into Carrie’s shirt. “Hey, honey… how did you get out of your bed?” she asked, and Quinn could see her half-concerned, half-exasperated glance in his direction. Franny let out a sad gurgle. Quinn sighed, rubbing his palm over his face and back through his hair. It was the first time she had managed the crib escape, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“I’ll put her back down,” he offered, holding an arm out for the transfer. Carrie’s head bobbed, and Franny sniffled for a second until her soft weight was set in the crook of his elbow. She immediately latched onto him, arms finding his neck as she buried her forehead in his collarbone, drooling on his bare shoulder. As he used his free hand to push them out of the bed, Carrie leaned in and kissed the side of Franny’s hair a goodnight. 

Quinn felt around for the series of packing boxes that surrounded the bed. He nailed his knee on the one probably labelled _C - upstairs_ that contained an impressive number of shoes. He grunted through clenched teeth, muffling a _fuck!_ that Carrie wouldn’t thank him for. Franny giggled, sticking a finger in his ear.

“Ow ow,” she said.

Carrie snorted. 

“Yeah, _thanks,_ ” he muttered, mostly at Carrie. He reached for the open doorway, finding their way into the hall and across the landing to the smaller bedroom. The star shaped night-light showed him a box-free path to Franny’s crib. He glanced down at her, her lips set in an unimpressed pout at the sight of her own bed. 

“No.” She turned a set of teary eyes on him, shaking her head so the light curls tickled his face. “No, Queee…”

“Yes,” Quinn countered, slowly pulling her hands free of his neck. “It’s sleep time, Franny.”

She whined, but her eyelids drooped just at his suggestion, and she didn’t argue as he laid her back in her crib. She squirmed as he tucked in the baby blanket around her, but giggled when he lightly tugged on the toe that she pushed out the bottom. They watched each other for a few seconds, until her mouth dropped open and eyes drifted shut. He waited an extra minute, his chest heavy, and when she didn’t stir, he let her rest.

Carrie was in the same place he had left her - sprawled over his half of the bed. He watched her sleep for a second, just as he had watched her daughter - _their_ daughter? Both of them frowned the same way, that dent between their eyebrows, that pout in their lips. Quinn nearly chuckled, but it came out an amused huff instead, and he carefully made his way back around the bed, to the side nearest the window. Carrie hummed a soft complaint as he climbed next to her, the cold air creeping in where the edge of the blanket flipped up. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck as her legs shifted to cling to his waist. 

Like mother, like daughter. He was surprised that he had gotten any sleep at all in the past two weeks. Carrie had arrived home one day, interrupted his rewiring of the hallway breaker panel, and dropped a stack of mortgage papers at his feet. Since they had started looking, it hadn’t even taken her a month to find the house she wanted - a brownstone in Brooklyn that came with a six figure bank loan. He hadn’t mentioned that he had enough cumulative damage-pay to cover the entire house eight times over. Because mortgages were _normal_ , and they were normal now. 

Quinn listened to the house, still not used to the faint din of the space, the gurgle of the radiator pipes, or the murmur of their neighbours. But he was really just listening for Franny - the sound of her breath, the soft coo of her voice, and now the scrape of little feet trying to scale the crib railing.


	2. February

**FEBRUARY**

He squinted at the tightly scrawled handwriting. What the fuck even _was_ that? 

_Peanut butter_  
_Apples_  
_Wheat Bread_  
_Quick Oats_

And then some indistinguishable mark that was at least two words, but maybe three. Quinn held the scrap of notepaper closer, hoping Carrie’s writing would unscramble itself so he could just grab the last item on the list, and go home. 

He glanced to the side, where a 20s-something woman dressed head-to-toe in overpriced yoga apparel was deliberating between four different types of gluten-free, butter-free, free-range-or-whatever-shit, organic granola. _For fuck’s sakes._ She looked back at him, double-taking, her brown eyes giving him an appreciative once-over. He scowled in return, grabbing the closest bag of oats - quick or motherfucking slow, he wasn’t sure - and walked back down the grocery aisle. 

He looked down to the last item on the list, but it still didn’t read as anything tangible, so he turned the corner into housewares, just so he’d at least look like he knew where he was going. There was a display of Easter candies, even though Easter was two months away, and he stood next to it to stare helplessly at Carrie’s writing. 

His phone vibrated in his back pocket and he juggled the food in his arms so he could free a hand to answer it. 

_Carrie M._

She had programmed her contact in his phone - a picture of her and Franny wearing matching face paint at last year’s Thanksgiving ZooLights, faces smiling happily on the calling screen. It served its purpose - his heart skipping a second, his mouth twitching in a smile.

“Hey.” He circled the Easter display to make room for an older man walking down the aisle, who was talking too loudly at his wife, a woman walking three feet behind and pointedly ignoring him. 

“Hey, I forgot one thing.” Carrie’s voice rippled, and he heard Franny talking in the background. 

“Uh, sure.” Quinn paused, waiting, staring at the other side of the Easter table, which held a series of stuffed animals in rabbit, duck, and sheep form. He absentmindedly picked one up.

“Milk.”

“What kind?” Quinn sighed. 

“Franny, no-don’t--” Carrie was silent for a second, while Franny shrieked happily somewhere close to her, accompanied by splashing water. “Just normal milk, whatever. You know. Two percent?”

“Sure-wait-Carrie?” 

“I’m here.”

“What’s the last item on your list? I have no _idea_ what the hell it says-”

“Uh…”

“Peanut butter, apples, bread, oatmeal…”

“Chocolate chip cookies? The ones in the in-store bakery.”

Quinn did a closer inspection of her handwriting. “ _Really?_ ”

Carrie laughed through the line, Franny echoing. “ _Yes_ , really.”

“You need to work on your penmanship...”

Her voice lowered slightly to match his changed tone. “Are you offering private lessons?”

Quinn bit his cheek to hide the smile creeping along his lips. It didn’t matter that he stuck out like a sore thumb in this urbanite grocer, that he had stogged the items on Carrie’s list into an efficient tetris puzzle in the crook of his arm, or that he still held the stuffed rabbit in the same hand as the phone. She just _did_ something to him. He had been a fucking goner since the very first day. 

Franny shrieked again and this time Carrie swore, bringing him sharply back into the conversation and away from the gutter. “Shit, Quinn, gotta go-”

“I’ll be home soon,” he said, hanging up.

…

“Heyyyy.” Carrie looked up as he walked into the kitchen. The front of her t-shirt was half soaked with bath water, but a clean Franny was sitting in her highchair at the table. Carrie’s face broke into a wide smile as he dropped the paper bag onto the counter. “You get everything?” she asked, teasing lightly as she lit a burner on the gas stove, placing the kettle on top, snapping the whistle shut to boil. She took a step toward him, leaning up, waiting for him to kiss her.

He raised his eyebrows at her instead. “I got everything you wanted.”

“Oh, so it’s like that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, keeping him from stepping away. Her forehead smoothed as her mouth twitched, waiting for him to continue their phone conversation from 20 minutes ago. “I _thought_ you had a lesson to teach me.” 

His hands found her hips, the seat of her jeans, and then the space between her legs. The denim was warm there, and she gave a sharp inhale as his fingers dug upwards. It was easy to turn her, the bottom of her torso the perfect pivot point for her entire body. Her pinned her to the counter and her hands slammed down onto the marble, the edge digging into her stomach, her breath hitching. 

She smelled sweet, like baby shampoo, and he sighed into her neck, pressing his chest into her spine. She pushed back against him, but not hard enough to move him, to change his stance. Her face turned a fraction and he lifted his mouth to hers. He had only been gone an hour, but she kissed him like he had been gone a month, all tongue and teeth, and when he released some of his grip, she lifted one hand to run a palm through his hair, tilting her ass back into the crotch of his jeans. 

“Queeeee!” Franny demanded loudly from her seat. “Snack!” 

Carrie laughed against his mouth and he groaned in frustration. How did other people even have time to _make_ a second child? He wiped his face with the back of his hand as he let Carrie slip out from the space he had pinned her in. He slowed his breath, taking one long second. Franny had been playing with a block set, but she was now watching them impatiently. 

“Be patient, Sweetie,” Carrie said, and Quinn gave a dry smile as she glanced at him, clearly not only talking to the toddler. “Do you want a cookie? Quinn brought some for a treat-”

She had said the magic word, and Franny gave an uncomfortably high squeal. “Cookie!” She clapped happily, repeating it ad nauseum, and Quinn cleared his throat, scratching at his chest as Carrie peaked into the paper bag. She paused. Oh, right.

“Well, what have we here?” Carrie laughed, and she withdrew the plush white rabbit. Quinn felt his ears grow warm as he shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“They were on sale.”

“ _Right._ ” Carrie gave him a knowing smirk, checking the tags on the toy before giving them a sharp tug of removal. “Franny, look what Quinn found-”

“Mr. Bubbles?” Franny asked, glancing up hopefully at the _look_ cue. Bubbles, the plush dalmatian, had met an unfortunate end in the washing machine the week before. Franny had looked everywhere for it, but Carrie insisted to him that she would forget about Bubbles soon enough. It hadn’t exactly been true. 

“No, it’s Mr. Rabbit,” Quinn replied, rounding the counter to take a seat next to her. Her eyes widened as she stared at the toy, mouth opening, and she looked to him for confirmation. 

“Franny?” she asked, giving a slight tilt of her own body, like she was trying to point to herself. He placed the rabbit on the table and Franny gave it a tentative poke with one finger. Then she tugged it closer, holding it with both hands and smiling at it in wonder. She moved it up and down, bouncing it on her highchair tray. “Hop hop hop.” 

Quinn laughed, smoothing Franny’s damp curls down with his palm. Carrie set a cup of coffee down next to him, in one of the clay mugs Maggie had given them for Christmas. Her left hand was still empty, but she hadn’t mentioned a ring, even though he found a current issue of _Brides_ in the stack of magazines she kept in a basket next to the bed, hidden behind copies of _The New Yorker_ and _Foreign Policy_. It had been addressed to Maggie, but a quick scan showed that it had barely been opened. He had no fucking idea. Maybe he would text Maggie and just ask her what Carrie wanted.

Fingers drifted through his hair, and he realized Carrie was still standing behind him. Her fingernails scratched at the nape of his neck, so he leaned back, suddenly feeling tired. It had been too many nights of coaxing Franny to sleep, and too many days of chasing her around, fitting himself into Carrie’s increasingly busy schedule. He hadn’t been so tired since two weeks of instant coffee and cigarettes in the Afghanistan mountains sometime in 2004. Maybe he was getting old. 

“You okay?” Carrie asked above him. He reached for the coffee mug and brought it to his lips, taking a mouthful that burned all the way down. She placed a small sippy cup of milk and half of a cookie on the table for Franny, who pointedly ignored it, still chirping _hop hop hop_ to herself.

“Yeah. How was your day?”

Carrie side-shuffled past Franny, who was still too distracted by her new toy to pay her mother any attention, sitting on the other side of the table. She sat down and smiled at him in a _I have something to tell you_ sort of way. His chest tightened. 

“Did something go wrong?” he asked. 

She laughed, and he realized her smile was just that - a smile. She was happy. “No, they actually _offered_ it to me while you were out-”

“But you just-”

“Had the interview _today_ , I know,” she finished, shrugging, tilting her head to smile at him. Franny giggled next to them. “Head of security. Full benefits. Daycare included for this little troublemaker.” She leaned over and tickled Franny with the tip of her forefinger, who squeaked and used the toy to try and push back. “Pretty rabbit, huh, honey?”

“Hop hop,” Franny replied, hugging the toy to her chest, burying her face in it.

Carrie looked to him, clearly waiting for a response - for his approval - forehead wrinkling as she noticed his hesitation. She sat back in her seat, waiting. “That’s great, Carrie. Really.” Quinn stood, leaning over and taking her hand, squeezing it as he bent down and kissed her lightly. He could taste the chocolate from the other half of Franny’s cookie.

“Quinn-” She pulled back to survey him, her light eyes searching his face for what he _really_ thought. He squeezed her hand again, because even if he didn’t exactly like _who_ she would be working for, he understood the need she felt - to do something, fix anything, help somehow. “It’ll be good,” she added quietly.

“I know.” He straightened, glancing back at where the tray of cookies sat on the island counter. “What, no cookie for me?” Quinn asked, sort of to tease her, to release some of the tension, but mostly because he had expected one. After all, he had spent 10 minutes looking for them, while Yoga Pants Yuppie non-discreetly followed him around the store.

Carrie looked genuinely surprised. “You don’t _like_ sweets.” 

“Sure I do.” 

He fetched one for himself, and one for Carrie, even though she would only eat a bite. Franny had set the rabbit at its own table place between her and Carrie, and was humming to herself as she took alternating bites of the cookie and milk. He and Carrie watched each other across the table, and he was almost able to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ll take my cookie scene outta my cold, dead, bitter hands, god dammit.


	3. March

**MARCH**

Carrie’s legs tightened around his ears, and her hips bucked upwards, nearly smacking him in the face. He dropped one of his hands from her breast to her stomach, pressing her flat onto the desk. She sighed loudly, running her fingers through his hair impatiently.

“Oh, fuck, oh _fuck_ …” She squirmed under the weight of his hands and mouth, and a sharp wave of pain shot through his forehead as she pulled at fistfuls of his hair. Her entire body tensed and released, although her thighs remained locked on his shoulders. She laughed breathlessly, one hand lifting from his hair. He glanced up to see her flip her wrist over to check the time on her watch. “Oh, shit! It’s nearly 1-” She scrambled to hoist herself onto her elbows, pushing her body forward to grab him by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. 

“ _Carrie_ -” Quinn gave a grunt of discomfort as she pulled at his belt, struggling to tug his clothes open. She paused to glare at him, a look that would’ve been more impressive had she not been sitting bare-ass naked on the living room desk. 

“Franny will be awake in 15 minutes, so that's exactly how long you have-”

His mouth felt like it was coated in sandpaper, and he ran his hands over his face and through his already mussed hair. She laughed somewhere by his neck, both of her hands having found their way into his clothes, her tongue suddenly wet and insistent below his ear. “ _Fuck_ -” 

Carrie scooted closer to him, pushing his unbuttoned jeans over his hips, circling her legs around him. It’s not like he needed convincing. He shifted, his palms sliding under her ass, adjusting the weight of her body, bringing her closer, forcing her legs a bit tighter. Her fingernails dug into his back and she exhaled against his cheek, laughing lightly, her hair loose around her shoulders. It tickled his mouth as they kissed, only sweet for the second he was still, until she rocked impatiently against him. He pushed back.

“You’re fucking bossy today-” He gave the side of her thigh a loud smack in reprimand, and she squeaked - so he picked her up a few inches off the desk. When he let her weight drop back onto the hard surface, his hands barely shielding her skin from the impact, he felt the force of it up in his teeth. She bit his tongue, and the taste of blood in his mouth sent a surprising surge of anger through his chest. He snapped her onto her back, keeping her down with the width of his palm between her collarbones. She watched him behind a half-lidded gaze, her mouth open, her hands scrambling to steady herself with the edges of the desk. 

Sometimes it got out of hand - if she was too stressed, or he thought too much about all those things he always tried _not_ to think about. She had started work the week before, and had been growing increasingly - noticeably - frazzled, until he and Franny had come back from the park to find Carrie home on what was supposed to be her lunch break. She had been pacing the hallway, her heels having left a light scuff on the wood floor, and had nearly jumped them when they walked through the door. The baby had gone down for a nap, and Carrie had taken all her clothes off in the living room. 

He slumped over her, panting, trying to keep his weight on his forearms, but when Carrie stroked the side of his face, he dropped his forehead to the desk. It was only silent for a split second, until Franny’s sudden cry from her upstairs room broke it. Quinn groaned, pulling back, but sliding his hand under Carrie’s shoulders to help her up. He watched her carefully, searching for signs of mania - even just the small ones, the first ones. “Carrie.”

He didn’t like to ask, but she gave him a small smile, her light eyes hesitating before lifting to his. “I’m good, I promise.” She kissed him, offering reassurance, and he held her closely for a brief second, his fingers stroking her spine. He huffed an exhale against her mouth, a brief tremble in his shoulders. Upstairs, Franny cried again, frustrated that no one had attended to her. 

Carrie laughed against his lips. “I’ll get her.” She started to lean away, but paused. “Quinn?” She looked at him strangely, like there was something misplaced on his face, in the way his eyebrows sat on his forehead. Her fingers trailed over one, her palm sliding down the side of his face until she could cup the corner of his jaw with her thumb. 

He had barely put himself back together in the time it took her to disappear upstairs, returning what seemed like seconds later, dressed and cleaned off, and carrying a smiling toddler. Quinn watched Carrie check her reflection in the hall mirror as he rebuttoned his shirt, tucking its tails into the back of his jeans. Franny ran around Carrie’s ankles, trying to squirm her way into her puffer jacket, but ultimately just dragging it over her head and making airplane noises.

The doorbell sounded and he winced at the volume. He had been meaning to replace it with something less offensive, although he would’ve preferred to just rip it from the wall and give it a good stomp with the heel of his boot.

“Dee dong!” Franny yelled in return, running over to press her face on the inside glass door. Carrie opened up the entryway, side-stepping Franny to cross the short foyer. Quinn frowned as he watched Carrie answer the door to a small woman with dark hair. 

“Hey, Latisha,” Carrie said, moving back to let the woman in. She had come highly recommended by one of the lawyers in Carrie’s office, but Quinn hadn’t met her. Carrie had gone to lunch with the lawyer and _Latisha_ the very same day, but she hadn’t even bothered to tell him until after the fact. Until after the nanny was hired, and was scheduled to take Franny every afternoon. His jaw twitched. 

“Hi, Carrie.” Latisha smiled, and her eyes landed on Franny, who was hovering by Carrie’s ankles, looking suddenly shy. All the muscles in his legs tensed, as if preparing to launch his body forward - just in case this new person was a threat. He swallowed the burning sensation at the roof of his mouth, watching as Franny clutched onto her mother’s pant leg. “And this must be Franny,” Latisha continued, kneeling carefully. Franny nodded silently. 

Quinn watched the introduction, relaxing as Franny warmed to the woman, but he didn’t move from his position near the staircase. It took her a second to notice him, until her gaze flickered up and locked on his. He raised his eyebrows. Carrie followed Latisha’s gaze, then took a half-step back to grab him by the elbow. 

“Latisha, this is Peter Quinn… Quinn… she’s our new… nanny.” Carrie finished with a smile, as if proud of herself, gesturing to the woman.

“Hi.” He offered his hand. She took it tentatively, and Franny watched them, transferring her grip to his ankle, as if to say that he too, was hers. 

“Nice to meet you,” she said after a beat.

“And we’ve gotta go!” Carrie interrupted, checking her watch. “Franny, where are your boots?”

“Boos,” Franny replied, plunking herself down in the entryway to try and pull them on. Quinn went to help her, but Latisha was already there, expertly sliding Franny’s stocking feet into the boots, faster than he ever had. Had his face fallen? Something must have made Carrie circle her palm around her elbow, lightly squeezing his bicep.

“Latisha and Franny will be back around 3… I’ll be home around 6.” She kissed him before he could nod. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Latisha look away, even though Carrie had barely even touched him. “Franny, say goodbye to Quinn.”

Franny threw both her arms around his legs, burrowing herself into his shins. “No?” she asked sadly. He gently detached her grip and knelt so they were closer to eye-level. Her blue eyes were concerned, hooded the way Carrie’s were, waiting for him to answer. 

“Not this time.”

“Kay.” Franny looked down at her mittens, heaving a large sigh. He gently slid his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her up, handing her off to Carrie, but not before she laid a wet kiss on his cheek. “Bye-bye.”

Carrie gave him an amused half-roll of the eyes as she shouldered Franny’s diaper bag. He followed them to the door, but forced himself to stay inside. Carrie and Latisha were talking, not noticing how he lingered, but Franny waved at him all the way down the stairs, and then all the way down the street, until he had to shut the door and they dropped out of sight. 

…

It was a massive building, what used to be a textile warehouse, in way too trendy a neighbourhood. Quinn tried not to blatantly scowl at the entire fourth floor designated for the _Düring Foundation - Americas Office_. The sign in the whitewashed brick wall was set in perfectly distressed silver letters - the reception girl beneath it gave him a quizzical glance. She opened her mouth to speak, but he got in the first word.

“Carrie Mathison. I have an appointment-”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and although he didn’t even know where Carrie’s office _was_ , he took a right past reception and turned the corner onto the main office floor. There were a handful of strategically young lawyers milling around a center cluster of desks, but there were also two corner offices, and he knew immediately which one was Carrie’s. 

But not because she was in it. In fact, there was hardly anything in it - just office furniture, a bookshelf, a slim silver computer. When he stood in the doorway, he saw the single piece of Franny - a swirl of green and yellow crayon on loose leaf paper that was pasted in a small wooden frame. He stepped into the office, nearly a perfect cube of glass wall. There was a Miles Davis poster that had belonged to Frank, leaning against the aged panelled windows. 

“-but he just came right in, Miss. Mathison, I’m sorry-”

Quinn turned at the panicked voice of the receptionist, who was hurrying after Carrie, striding across the main floor. She was dressed for the cold, wearing a matching hat and scarf in light grey. 

“Quinn, I know I’m late-” She reached for his arm, ignoring the hand-wringing girl behind her, who was still stumbling over an apology, and leaned up to kiss him. He could smell the outside air on her, and the receptionist let out a surprised squawk by the doorway as Carrie smiled against his mouth, his hand finding that curve of her hip. 

He wanted to kiss her longer, but she pulled away after just an appropriate second, glancing back at their audience. “He doesn’t need an appointment,” she said to the girl, who nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose as she spun in embarrassment and left. Quinn raised his eyebrows at Carrie, who was unbuttoning her jacket, pulling off her hat to sit down at her desk. She glanced up at him.

“What?” When he didn’t reply, she rolled her eyes. “She’s new, she’ll learn.” 

“She looks like she’s sixteen.”

“She’s just an intern from NYU.” 

Quinn placed his hands on the back of one of the Herman Millers across from her desk. He leaned his weight down, watching her eyes flick quickly across her computer screen, a light wrinkle forming between her brows as she read whatever news her email had sent. “You never actually introduce me as anything, you know.” 

Her eyes snapped up to his in surprise. “What? Yes, I do-”

“Carrie.” A lightly accented voice behind him interrupted their burgeoning argument, forcing Quinn to turn. A man stood in the door - navy suit and tie, strawberry blonde hair and a carefully grown eight o’clock shadow. He glanced at Quinn once, but directed the rest of his attention on Carrie. “Do you have a moment?”

Carrie pushed back the sleeve of the black peacoat she was still wearing, sighing at the time on her watch. “Jonas, I can’t - I only have five minutes-”

“That’s all we need,” the man replied. Quinn was sure _Jonas_ was pointedly _not_ looking in his direction, so he stared him down instead. There was no protocol - he had no fucking experience with this. Before, he and Carrie had had the same colleagues, had run in similar circles, had known which lines to cross - but now they were all civilians, and yet he was somehow on the outside. A surge of inadequacy hit him.

“Okay, _five_ minutes.” Carrie pushed herself from her seat, then paused, glancing at Quinn. “Jonas, this is Peter Quinn, my _fiance_ … Quinn, Jonas Hollander. He’s one of our German exports.” Carrie gave a short laugh, smiling as she dug her hands into her pockets, looking a bit embarrassed, but also a little bit smug - as if she was pleased at the swift opportunity to prove him wrong. Quinn’s jaw twitched, but the German was holding out his hand in a reluctant-looking peace offering, his entire face lined with surprise.

“Nice to meet you. I didn’t realize…” He faded off and Quinn imagined his unfinished sentence was probably, _that Carrie was attached_ \- or maybe even, _that Carrie was fucking somebody else_. But when he looked back at her, she was smiling at him, not Jonas, and her face was so nearly perfect it sent his heart pounding. 

So he gave as much of a tight smile as his face would allow, and shook Jonas’ hand. Carrie’s fingers brushed the back of his coat sleeve as she followed Jonas out of her office. He sighed, scrubbing at his face with his palm, wandering over to the window to look down at where he had parked Carrie’s SUV. He could see the pile of suitcases he had carefully loaded into the back. Carrie had been up until nearly midnight the night before, packing them. 

Maggie and Bill were expecting them by dinner, it was already 1500, and they still had to pick up Franny. He had tried to convince Carrie that it was better time management to retrieve Franny from Latisha _before_ he arrived at her office, but Franny had grown used to her afternoons at the park with Latisha, and Carrie had insisted that she needed to _socialize with other children_. He knew she was right. It had only been five days since their new schedule had started, and all three of them were already sleeping better. 

“All finished,” Carrie said suddenly behind him. He turned to see her logging off her desktop, simultaneously scrambling to shove some papers into her shoulder bag. “Did you get everything?”

“Yeah.” He pushed himself off the window, stepping forward to help her.

“Josie’s birthday present?”

“That too.” He smiled, watching as she ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it before she slid the grey beanie back over her head. The colour seemed to vibrate against her skin, her eyes more silver than green - Quinn felt a warm tug beneath his gut. He was transparent these days, because she quirked an eyebrow at him, reading his mind in the way that no one else could. She slung her bag over her arm, pushing in her chair, and holding out a hand. When he stepped closer, she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow, and the brief jealousy he had felt earlier seemed far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting cuz we're movin' on to April...


End file.
